


Flight of Fancy

by bactaqueen



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars: New Jedi Order Era - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ta'a Chume didn't interrupt Jaina Solo and Jag Fel on Hapes. They go in search of the trophy room, and find exactly what they're looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight of Fancy

**Title:** Flight of Fancy  
 **Author:** bactaqueen  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Summary:** Ta'a Chume didn't interrupt Jaina Solo and Jag Fel on Hapes. They go in search of the trophy room, and find exactly what they're looking for.  
 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created by George Lucas. No money is being made, and no infringement is intended. As his own people put it, it's his sandbox, I'm just playing in it. Also, Jag's quote was taken directly from page 168 of Dark Journey. Once again, no money is being made and no infringement is intended.  
 **Author's Note:** Thanks again to my beta, Caitie. To those of you who wanted a sequel to Touch and Go, enjoy. And thanks!

  
  
Colonel Jagged Fel, impressive in his formal black uniform, rose from the high-backed chair and stepped aside to push it back into its place at the dining table. His expression was somber as he rendered a deep, ceremonious bow to the smiling brunette. She was still in her place across the table from him, and she watched him with amused brown eyes. Jag extended one hand to her as the first traces of a bare smile began to curve his lips and ruin his countenance of solemnity.  
  
If the smile only began to ruin it, the eyes did him in. His pale green eyes twinkled as he made his invitation. "May I have the honor of shared evasive maneuvers?"  
  
He was rewarded first by Jaina Solo's quiet laugh. Then she reached for his hand and accepted his proposal. She straightened the skirts of her gown as she stood, tugged at the laces that cinched her waist, and stepped away from her chair, closer to him. Jag slipped an arm around her waist, intending to take advantage of the fast jig the musicians were playing by making a quick escape. The dance would be cover in case they were being watched.  
  
They merged into the crowd of whirling and bobbing noble guests. With faintly devilish smiles on their faces, both young pilots divided their attention between their partner, the dance, the people around them, and the nearly-hidden exit that would lead them into the hallway and in search of the trophy room. A sense of anticipation that even Jag could feel settled between them, and for one impossibly fun moment, brandy-brown eyes met pale green teasingly. They spun closer to the door.  
  
The band eased out of the jig, and the couple was forced to a standstill along with the rest of the dancers. The crowd applauded politely, but Jag and Jaina remained frozen. Around them, dancers milled; some switched partners, some left the dance floor, some simply roamed, and some--like the two young fighter pilots--stood stock still and waited for the next dance to begin.  
  
Jag gave the young woman before him a significant look, then glanced just as meaningfully toward their intended target. The silk-draped alcove was less than four meters away--four meters of dance floor, uncannily clear in an all-too-beckoning path to freedom, flanked by dancers.  
  
He made a decision. Though the glittering banquet hall was pretty and the food had been delicious and the guests in the room could help him and his mission in more ways than even he cared to count, he'd much rather find out just how much fun harmless mischief with Jaina Solo could be. As he began to turn and drop his arm from her waist to make a break--albeit a dignified break--for it, the hidden band struck up again. This time, it was a hopelessly slow and traditional waltz. He and Jaina were swept up in the zephyr of bodies and the swirling of skirts. Jag wanted to laugh.  
  
Jaina did laugh, and he glanced down to meet her eyes. She rested one hand on his shoulder and flicked her gaze toward the nook. As quickly as the music would allow, they made their way across the seven meters--they'd lost three to the waltz--of polished dance floor and courtly banquet hall to duck into the shadows of the door-hiding alcove. The gently draped silk and a fragrant arrangement of large white flowers hid them from prying eyes.  
  
Jag finally released his hold on her waist, but did not let Jaina's hand go. With one final glance over his shoulder to be sure that they remained unobserved, he pulled the door open. He led Jaina into the darkened, silent hallway, still gripping her hand.  
  
They stood there for several breathless moments, both of them with impish grins on their faces and mischievous glints in their eyes. The paneled door swung shut behind them, squeaking softly on antique brass hinges, without human aid.  
  
Jaina shot Jag a long glance, her brandy-brown eyes dancing. He suspected the illusion was only partly due to the lit candles around them. Her grin softened into a faint, teasing smile that merely curved her pretty mouth.  
  
"Colonel Fel," she said, affecting formality neither of them felt. "You dance so well."  
  
The grin he gave her was quick and cocky, a fighter pilot's grin, a Corellian's grin. "I'm a man of many talents."  
  
Her lips twisted slightly. "I don't doubt it. But I'm curious--where did you learn?"  
  
"In the cockpit. What is a dogfight, anyway, but a deadly dance?"  
  
He was getting philosophical. Jag supposed the wine had been stronger than he had originally presumed. He always got philosophical when he'd had something too strong, or something he hadn't been quite prepared for.  
  
Jaina seemed to consider that. She was silent, her eyes searching his face. "Yes," she mused, then changed the subject idly. "Do you any of your talents concern exploration or reconnaissance?"  
  
He flashed her another quick grin. "I found you tonight, didn't I?"  
  
In the predicted show of exasperation with his arrogance, she groaned and rolled her eyes. "Corellian egos..." she muttered.  
  
"Do I need to remind you that you're half-Corellian yourself, Lieutenant?" He arched one eyebrow at her.  
  
"As if I could forget in the first place," she grumbled, but smiled again up at him. "So, care to put any of those recon skills to use? We have a trophy room to find."  
  
"We do," he said.  
  
Jag looked up and down the hall. It was long, stretching into shadows to his right and to his left. Then again, that could have been the trick of light; there wasn't much light to begin with. The tall walls were made of stone, marble by the look of it, and affixed to the stone were elegant candelabras at varying heights. Real candles filled the candlesticks, the white columns topped with flickering yellow flames. The only other light for the passageway came from dimly-lit glowpanels, concealed within ironwork and suspended from the high ceiling.  
  
The floor was wooden. Long, wide planks of dark wood were fitted together, and the candlelight gleamed off of it. An ornately carved baseboard ran the length of the hallway--at least as far as he could see. A few brightly-colored rugs seemed to have been tossed down haphazardly. Jag suspected art of some kind, or at least a sort of logic, but could see neither.  
  
He took a moment to consider which direction to take. Absently, his gaze settled on Jaina. She'd spent some time in the palace--as he understood it, she and the princess were close childhood friends. Undoubtedly, she knew exactly where the trophy room was. If he knew her at all, Jaina Solo was the type of person who was always aware of her surroundings. He could simply ask her. She could lead them. It would be more efficient that way, and Jag Fel was an efficient person. Under normal circumstances, that's exactly what he would have done.  
  
But circumstances weren't normal, and for the time being, efficiency meant nothing but less time spent in the company of the young woman. And less time was not what Jagged Fel wanted with Jaina Solo.  
  
He tightened his grip on her hand and nodded once to their right. "I think we should go this way."  
  
She rewarded him with a smile that made his heart leap. "I'm your wing."  
  
They started off down the hallway. Progression was purposefully slow; he wanted to take his time and enjoy himself, enjoy the scenery, the atmosphere of the evening... and her.  
  
Jag glanced surreptitiously down at Jaina. He hadn't seen her in two years, two years he'd spent trying to convince his father and the ruling Chiss houses that they had to help the New Republic fend off the alien invaders. Two years he'd spent working, flying, fighting. In that time, he'd always been aware of her and had listened for any news about her. Not actively, of course--he was too busy and she was too far away for him to spend too much time focusing on her. But at night just before he fell asleep, or when he was alone in the cockpit of his ship watching the dance and swirl of hyperspace, he'd catch himself remembering something she'd said, something she'd done. He'd wonder where she was, what she was doing, if she was happy... if she was thinking about him.  
  
When he'd seen her last, she'd been a broken girl and an injured pilot, madder than a gundark at being forced out of ready status. She hadn't been able to see him, and some of the things she'd said could have stung. As they had this afternoon. She'd been a child, suddenly and painfully aware that the universe was a dangerous and unfair place. Suddenly aware that eventually, everyone's luck falters--even Solo luck.  
  
Jaina had lost some of her innocence since then. Her hard voice over the comm had stiffened his spine. She'd been betrayed--by a man she trusted--and she'd lost two brothers. But she was still alive, and the young woman beside him no longer looked like a broken little girl.  
  
What she did look was beautiful. His compliment before had not been mere politeness--the expected phrase in the familiar situation. It had been the truth, and he'd surprised himself by how much he'd meant it. And her blush. Jag Fel smiled. Her blush had been a spectacular thing, leading him to think that she believed him. That was a rather pleasant surprise.  
  
The idea of Jaina Solo in a dress had never occurred to him. She'd always seemed to belong in flight suits or Jedi robes. It had been easy to forget that her mother was the last princess of the royal house of Alderaan and the former Chief of State of the New Republic. It had been easy to forget that Jaina was Ambassador Solo's only daughter, and that she belonged to the world of politics and politicians as surely as she belonged to the world of pilots and warriors.  
  
She fit. So did the dress. Made of scarlet silk, the elegant gown clung to her in all the right places. Jag couldn't help but notice how well those flight suits and Jedi robes had hidden her figure. When she moved, the skirts swayed lightly. The neck of the gown was dangerously low-cut. On some worlds, it would have been considered indecent, and Jag knew there was no way in any of the Corellian hells that his father would have let any of his sisters leave the house wearing anything so revealing. There was no necklace to draw the eye up and away, though she had left her hair down in an attempt to amend that problem. But the dark brown tresses barely brushed her half-bare shoulders. Jag caught no flash of light from her ears or her hands; she wasn't wearing any jewelry at all. The candlelight and the reflection of the red dress lent her skin a rosy glow.  
  
Jaina pulled it off, no matter how uncomfortable she may have been. And he knew she was uncomfortable; to him, her displeasure was blatantly obvious, displayed in the tension of the muscles in her neck and cheek, in the way she tugged restlessly at the laces at her waist, in the way her eyes darted about.  
  
She sensed his stare, and turned to look at him. Her lips twisted. "See something you like?"  
  
A slow smile tugged his mouth wide. "Yes."  
  
That wasn't the response she'd been prepared for. Jaina flushed--an amazing color, identical to the dress--and glanced away. He followed the path of her gaze, pleased with himself and the reaction he was getting out of her. He saw a closed door.  
  
Without a word, he reached to turn the old-fashioned brass doorknob and pushed open the richly paneled door. He peeked into the room, leaning in past the doorjamb, then pulled back and gave her a look.  
  
"Just a private receiving room, he said, allowing a hint of disappointment to creep into his tone." He and Jaina both moved to peer into the room.  
  
It was darkened, with the only light coming from the hallway and spilling through the doorway around them. There was a large rug with an intricate design woven into it in the middle of the floor. Two high-backed, upholstered couches that looked like antiques faced each other across a low, carved table. A lounge next to a delicate paper screen completed the room's set of furniture, while bookshelves and paintings took up wall space. There were two other doors in the room, but Jag didn't know where they led to.  
  
"Perhaps the Queen Mother uses it," he suggested, voice low, "for exclusive events."  
  
Jaina sent him a glance, her expression a mixture of surprise and amusement. The surprise, he was sure, came because she hadn't expected an innuendo to occur to him, much less that he would voice it.  
  
"She is fond of entertaining," Jaina conceded. "Did you see the blond number with Ta'a Chume tonight? Women that age--"  
  
Chuckling, Jag pulled the door shut. "She is our host," he pointed out. "And your friend's grandmother."  
  
Jaina wrapped a hand around his arm and brushed closer. "Tenel Ka doesn't like her grandmother, anyway. Doesn't trust her. But I respect the old woman. She's a lot like my mother. Not in the backstabbing, keeping-a-courtesan kind of way, though."  
  
"The former queen--" Jag began, in an effort to keep Jaina from saying something she'd regret.  
  
"Is a formidable old lady."  
  
"Who was kind enough to arrange for you to stay here," he pointed out.  
  
"Kind? Have you met her yet?" Jaina tilted her head and gave him a long, appraising look, as if seeing him for the first time. "She might like you," she offered.  
  
The implications of that statement were not lost on Jag. He was dismayed to feel the heat rising on his neck, but he mustered a glower. "I don't think I'm her type."  
  
"Hmm." Jaina kept looking at him, sizing him up. "I don't know. Maybe she's gotten tired of the same devastating blonds, again and again. You might be a change of pace for her--"  
  
"I am not a paramour," he said firmly.  
  
Jaina's grin was quick and wicked. "I never said you were. Awfully touchy tonight, aren't you Colonel?"  
  
Touchy. Touching. Jaina was touching him. Her hip brushed his, and he glanced down. "Yes."  
  
Jaina glanced away, to squint her eyes down the hallway. "Didn't we have a mission?"  
  
Of course. Stuffed heads. He wanted to laugh suddenly. "Come on."  
  
He started to lead again, heading for the next door. His gaze roved about the hall, taking it all in, noting every detail. Like the number of candles in any given fixture, or the slight draft that moved the oversized tapestry on the wall to his right. There was a stiff-backed chair against the wall across from the tapestry next to a low table with an antique glass-shaded lap atop it. The hall alone was filled with treasures--priceless ones, things Jag had only seen in books or heard about from historians. And not all of the artifacts were native to Hapes.  
  
The tapestry, for example, was from Corellia. He recognized the myth. The intricately-carved chair was from Bimmisaari. The lamp--which he was willing to bet still worked--was from Alderaan, if he guessed correctly. All three treasures undoubtedly the products of successful raids made by the pirates long ago.  
  
"Did you ever play hide and seek as a kid?"  
  
As they passed the table, chair, and tapestry, Jag took a moment to admire them. Art was art, stolen or not, and his mother had made sure that her children had a healthy appreciation for art. When Jaina spoke, it surprised him. Her voice was only quiet and thoughtful, though, not booming and accusatory.  
  
Jag smiled faintly. "Of course I did."  
  
"Were you any good at it?"  
  
He glanced down to find a playful smile on her face. He affected an insulted air. "Of course I was."  
  
Jaina laughed. "You were terrible, weren't you?"  
  
In the face of the truth, his lie faltered. "Only until I was six," he admitted. He quickly added, in his defense, "Then I figured out if I didn't laugh, Davin couldn't find me."  
  
He felt a slight twinge of the old familiar pain at the memory of his brother. His big brother. The only person--aside from his father--that he admired with a single-mindedness that fringed on hero worship. In Jag's eyes, Davin could do no wrong. Had never done any wrong. Had died a hero.  
  
Davin was gone, almost five years now. Jag still missed having someone to go to with his problems, someone closer to his own age, someone less intimidating than his father, but wise and impressive nonetheless.  
  
Jag felt certain that if Davin were still alive, his brother would have had plenty to say about Jaina. Dav would have known exactly what Jag needed to do about her, and would have seen to getting it done.  
  
"You miss him."  
  
Jaina's voice broke into his thoughts with an observation that wasn't a question. When he met her eyes, there was a warm sadness in the liquid brown that made him remember that she'd just lost a brother of her own.  
  
Jag nodded once. "Yes."  
  
She grinned at him, not the reaction he'd anticipated. "What happened when you figured out how to stay quiet?"  
  
"Davin was eight," Jag answered. "So he just attached a beacon to my boot, set his datapad to receive the signal, and cheated."  
  
"How'd you get him back?" There was a sparkle in her eye.  
  
"I left the boot in his place at the table. Dad was not pleased when he found out that Dav had been using the beacon."  
  
"I bet not." Jaina was still smiling at him. "What did your mom say?"  
  
Jag shrugged. "What could she say? That's what the beacon was for, to keep track of me. Cherith was five, and between the two of us, we made Mom's life nearly impossible. She'd rigged a set of old speeder bike transponders for when we went outside to play. Davin," he added darkly, "was a big boy and didn't need baby beacons."  
  
Jaina laughed again. "You were a terrible child."  
  
"And I didn't even have the Force." He shot her a significant glance.  
  
"Are you implying something, Colonel?" Jaina arched one eyebrow.  
  
A quick grin lit Jag's features as he reached for the door handle on the door they'd finally reached. "I'm not implying anything, Lieutenant. Merely offering an opening."  
  
As he said that, he pushed open the door. Rather, he tried to push the door open, but it didn't budge. He stepped back.  
  
"Locked," he said, slightly miffed that the door hadn't cooperated with his attempt at irony. He glanced down at the antiquated keyhole, and then his gaze fell to the floor and the light spilling out of the room beyond, escaping from under the door itself.  
  
A man's raucous laughter boomed, and the sound came through even the thick palace walls, albeit muffled. Jag shot Jaina a furtive glance.  
  
"Can you tell who's in there?" he asked, his voice lowered conspiratorially. His eyes darted back to the door. He added, "One of the ladies took off with a duke..."  
  
Jaina gaped. "Do you want to know what they're doing, too?" There was a certain degree of disbelief in her voice that Jag wasn't quite sure how to interpret.  
  
"No." Jag paused, considering. "Not really."  
  
She shook her head lightly, and then closed her eyes. He watched her face, seeing the same expression of contemplative concentration he'd seen those years ago in the medical stateroom. She'd been in a healing trance then, and not even aware that he'd been in her room all night. Jag didn't think she knew at all how scared for her he'd been.  
  
"Brandy," she murmured. Her eyes drifted open, and she blinked as if waking from a dream. "It's the lady and that duke, yes, but I smell brandy."  
  
"So do I." Jag's nose twitched. There was a loud thump from within the room, a sound like a couch being overturned. Someone moved, and there was a woman's voice raised in anger. "Let's move on before we're discovered, he suggested, taking her hand again."  
  
They moved away, barely in time to avoid being knocked over by a stumbling, drunken duke. Bright light streamed into the hallway, and the duke turned. For one moment, Jag thought the man would turn his attention to him and Jaina. But the tall man had no attention to spare.  
  
Lady Cleryssa--a distant cousin of Ta'a Chume's and only a minor noble--followed him into the hall, her blond hair streaming behind her. Even from this distance, Jag could see her green eyes blazing. She was screaming at the duke, something about men being stupid and her opinion that they should be kept in their place, and Jag revised his worry. He definitely didn't want Lady Cleryssa looking their way.  
  
For all the commotion, Jag and Jaina remained still, watching the scene. Ta'a Chume's cousin exploded one more time, and the reasons for the fuss came to light. There was another woman. Of course.  
  
"Courtly intrigue?" Jag suggested, leaning closer to speak softly into Jaina's ear.  
  
"Of the Hapan variety," she confirmed. "Although I suppose Dathomir is worse."  
  
"Worse?"  
  
Jaina nodded. "There isn't intrigue there so much as..." She stopped, searching for the right word. "Sport."  
  
"Sport." Jag repeated the word flatly, and couldn't help the bad feeling he had about encouraging her.  
  
Her smile was dangerously teasing. "Yeah. If the Queen wanted you on Dathomir, you wouldn't have a choice. She'd just knock you on the head, drag you off to her cave, and..." Jaina's voice trailed off.  
  
Jag's mind worked, and he didn't need Jaina to spell it out for him. "Barbaric," he remarked. He watched her face, and recognized that this was the response she'd expected. Of course he'd find it barbaric--he was a man, wasn't he? "Although it does have its appeal," he conceded.  
  
Jaina turned to him, her attention diverted fully away from the feuding couple. "Appeal?" she repeated, turning it into a question.  
  
He shrugged, a minimal gesture. "It sounds barbaric, but any culture that holds one sex superior to the other is. I'll admit, to be used solely for--"  
  
"Stop." Jaina's voice was firm, and she held up a hand. "Just stop." But there was a smile tugging at her lips. "And I considered you the gentlemanly sort."  
  
He gave her a cocky grin. "I am." He glanced away from her face. "I think it's safe to move now."  
  
She followed his gaze. The ruckus and the responsible party had disappeared in the other direction, and Lady Cleryssa could no longer be heard.  
  
"Sure."  
  
They came upon a side hall, and Jag paused at the threshold. "What do you think?" he asked.  
  
Jaina stared down the new corridor. It was short--only seven or eight meters--and the only light came from the lattice-worked window at the end, through which streamed silver-hued Hapan moonlight.  
  
"There aren't any doors," she pointed out.  
  
"No, but there's a connecting hall at the end."  
  
"Where does it lead?"  
  
"That's what we're going to find out."  
  
The corridor was narrow, half the width of the main hall. Small alcoves every meter or so lined the passage, and those alcoves were not empty. Treasures captured from victims of the Lorell Raiders filled these alcoves. Jag hesitated in front of a stone sculpture that seemed vaguely familiar.  
  
Jaina smiled in recognition. "An angel," she said.  
  
"A what?" He glanced from her to the sculpture, saw on her face and expression of softness that he recognized as remembrance.  
  
"An angel. From the moons of Iego. Deep space pilots made them up, a fantasy to pass the time. The most beautiful creatures in the galaxy. There are stories about ships' systems going haywire and pilots crashing into the planets, to be found and nursed back to health by the angels."  
  
"What did they want in return?"  
  
"The pilots."  
  
Silence fell between them, both of them studying the sculpture. Lithe, apparently clad only in a length of thin silk, the angel--where had he heard that before?--was carved in the galaxy's collective idea of beauty. Her hair seemed to flow down her back, and there was an expression of seduction on her face, as if in her cold stone existence she could take any man she wanted.  
  
"Where did you learn that?"  
  
"My father."  
  
"Has he ever met one?"  
  
Jaina's smile was slightly bitter. "My mother, he claims."  
  
Jag didn't tell her that he could see how General Solo would believe that, if his daughter was any indication. He also didn't ask about the bitterness in her voice and the brief hardening on her eyes when she spoke of the ambassador.  
  
They moved on. Further down the passageway, there was something far more unusual. An old stuffed boar, complete with wet-looking eyes glinting dangerously, coarse hair, tusks, and a snarl.  
  
"I think we're getting closer," Jaina whispered.  
  
"I don't think he can hear you," Jag whispered back, earning himself a playful punch on the arm for his insolence. He glanced the few remaining meters to the end of the corridor, rubbing gamely at his arm. The intersecting hall was reflected in the window, and he caught a glimpse of another door. A set of double doors, wide and paneled. Jag tugged on Jaina's hand. "I may have found it," he said to her.  
  
"What are we waiting for?"  
  
Both of them again grinning like troublesome children, they crept around the corner. Jag pushed down the tongue-like locking mechanism and put his weight into the door. In the uncanny silence, the door swinging open on squealing brass hinges startled both of them. Jaina squeezed his hand, and then chuckled nervously.  
  
"I'm jumpy," she said, unnecessarily.  
  
Jag nodded. "I know." He pulled her closer. "Let's go in."  
  
Jaina followed him into the room. This room, too, was only minimally lit. Apparently, the royals were focusing their energy only where they expected guests to be. Shadows loomed and lurched as the two young pilots moved further. There seemed to be a sense of oppressiveness, and Jaina moved even closer to him.  
  
"Funny, no matter how old you get, dark rooms are still spooky," she commented.  
  
"Especially dark rooms in unfamiliar palaces," he agreed.  
  
"Lights up!" Jaina paused. "Where's the light?"  
  
Jag's laugh was soft. "I think it's manual. There's a switch near the door."  
  
As he moved away, into the especially dark shadow to find the old-fashioned switch, the door slammed shut. The draft, he remembered, but that didn't keep him from jumping. Jaina didn't yelp--his soft noise of surprise certainly didn't count as a yelp, did it?--but she did jump, and he felt her hands on his arm.  
  
"Spooky," she said finally.  
  
Jag nodded solemn agreement, half-ashamed of himself, and reached for the bank of switches near the door. He picked at random.  
  
A light somewhere in the far corner came on, pitifully inadequate. He tried again, and another light in another corner came on, this one to illuminate a rather nasty-looking feral cat, ready to pounce on anyone who dared to occupy the nerf-hide smoking chair in front of it. Jag flicked the remaining three switches. Only dim lights met his effort.  
  
"They don't use this room often," he ventured.  
  
"Why would they?" Jaina looked around. "I bet Tenel Ka never comes in here anymore," she murmured.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
For a fleeting moment, sadness filled her face. "This place would give Jacen nightmares."  
  
Jag frowned. He didn't understand. What did the princess have to do with her brother? But he didn't ask; even he could sense her pain. He made a non-committal noise.  
  
He saw the curiosity on her face as she looked around, the consideration in her eyes. The place, he consented, was quite gruesome. The animals--and parts of animals--were arranged in what someone obviously considered a charming manner. The room's furniture tended toward the more traditionally masculine: leather and dark wood, rich colors, and a noticeable absence of softness and bright accessories.  
  
"I think," Jaina began thoughtfully, "that this is the prince's refuge."  
  
"Would he hang his daughter's foes on the walls in here?" he questioned.  
  
As if suddenly remembering she was supposed to be having fun, Jaina looked back at him and blinked. Then she smiled, slow and wide.  
  
"Maybe," she said, an enigmatic expression on her face. She turned slowly, her brown gaze raking over the furniture and grisly trophies of the room. Her eyes settled on the dark, heavy-looking wooden door across the room. She nodded to it. "In there."  
  
"Right behind you."  
  
They crossed the floor, the heavy rug rendering their footsteps silent. Jaina's skirts brushed against a hide-leather chair as she passed it, and the sound seemed impossibly loud in the deafening silence of the room. Jaina didn't seem to notice--if anything, she looked more at ease now than she had in the banquet hall. He decided it must be him and forced himself to relax.  
  
Jaina reached the door, and slid it aside. She stepped in and Jag followed. The room was small--for the palace--and clearly a closet. It had the musty smell of old books and yellowing paper, leather and cloth undisturbed for a very long time. In the half-light, he could see Jaina wrinkle her nose.  
  
"And I thought it smelled bad out there."  
  
He smiled slightly. "Ironic how you think the worst is behind you and it never is."  
  
"Hmm." Jaina looked around, then reached out to lay a palm on the wall to her left. She slid a hand along the wall, seeking the light switch. A natural assumption that the lights in here would be manual as well.  
  
Something stirred in the darkness further into the closet. It moved, and there was the faint sound of rustling fur, then the click of claws on wood. Startled, Jaina stepped back. Into him.  
  
Reflexively, Jag's arms went out and closed around her. Ostensibly to keep her from falling, or to keep her from backing through him. Perhaps even to protect her, though from what he wasn't sure.  
  
From somewhere in front of them, the thing moved again. Then Jag caught a glimpse of gray, and something small and furry rocketed past them, shooting out of the closet, through the trophy room, and into the hallway. It wasn't long before the rat-tat of claws on hardwood was no longer audible.  
  
"I hope," Jaina began quietly, "that it doesn't attack any of the guests." There wasn't even a hint of contrition on her voice. In fact, it sounded to Jag as if she were hoping for the exact opposite. If it did, he hoped they wouldn't be blamed.  
  
"What was it?"  
  
She hesitated. "Partially domesticated canine," she answered uncertainly. "It's not happy with Ta'a Chume, I know that. And it's less pleased with the blond."  
  
Jag frowned. "You could tell that?"  
  
Jaina shrugged. "Jacen may be the empathic one, but I'm not completely oblivious. Where're the lights, do you think?"  
  
It occurred to Jag then that Jaina had not moved from his grasp. She hadn't squirmed to get away, hadn't insisted he left her go. He also realized just how delicately made the gown was, how well it fit her. He became suddenly aware of the heat of her.  
  
"Jag?"  
  
His name floated up from the darkness and swam into his awareness as a question. He became dimly aware that she'd been speaking--doubtless something that again suggested that the former queen would take an interest in him--but he had not heard her. Not for the unfamiliar rushing sound in his ears, or the interesting impulses he felt.  
  
With effort, he managed, "Hmm?"  
  
"Feel something you like, Colonel?" There was a smile in her voice. Jaina leaned back into him deliberately, and squirmed just enough to rub her backside against him. He tensed.  
  
He'd never really been in a situation like this before, he admitted silently to himself. He felt as if he should know what to do--that he knew what to do, simply that it was taking his alcohol-slowed brain too much time to remember. He did know what to do if he ever found himself standing in a darkened closet with a beautiful woman in his arms, he was sure of it.  
  
He blinked, and his brain finally cleared and kicked in. Yes, he knew. Having regained control of his higher mental functions, Jag Fel did exactly what any hot-blooded man would do.  
  
He turned her around and tightened one arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him. The other hand slipped up her back, beneath her hair, to cup her head. He dipped his face, bent her body back just slightly, and kissed her.  
  
She didn't tense. He'd been half-expecting her body to go rigid against his, to feel her knee in an unfortunate way, and to be slapped when she finally escaped from his gasp. After all, what gave him the right?  
  
Instead, her body softened, melded willingly against his. Her lips parted slightly. Her arms came up, snaked around his neck, and she curled her fingers in his hair. Greedily, she pulled him closer, deeper into the kiss.  
  
She made a noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh and stopped supporting herself. She swayed into him, held him tighter. His mouth shifted, and he caught her lower lip between his, but only long enough for them to draw a breath. Then he was back, kissing her with a fervor he was unaccustomed to, and walking her back. His forearm touched the wall, and she made another soft noise.  
  
Jag pulled away to look at her. Her eyes came open slowly, and the dim light from the main room slanted across her face. Jaina's eyes were dark, and her lips--wet and rosy--curved into a smile.  
  
"What do you suppose would happen to any man who tried that with the princess?" he asked, teasing, but feeling strangely shy.  
  
"Tenel Ka would stuff and mount him herself." She paused, and her gaze dropped to his mouth. "Lucky for you, I'm a bit more lenient."  
  
"You are." His voice was husky, and of their own accord, his lips sought hers.  
  
"Try it again and I'll show you just how lenient I can be."  
  
"My pleasure." He kissed her again, a fleeting brush of lips.  
  
"Don't hog it all," Jaina murmured, and her head fell back, exposing her neck to him.  
  
Jag accepted the offered skin, his mouth traveling from her chin along her jaw, down her throat. He breathed in, the clean scent of her filling his mind, and dropped light kisses along her collarbone to her shoulder.  
  
She kept a hand held to the back of his head, her fingers in his hair, but he felt the slow progress of her other hand. As he pushed the scarlet silk aside to expose the rest of her shoulder, her hand found the edge of his uniform jacket, then the fasteners. He had a moment to consider what she was doing, then her hand was inside his uniform, flat against his chest, and she whispered his name.  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"There's a couch," she murmured against his ear, "in the other room. And there is a tusk digging into my back."

 

* * *

  
Colonel Jagged Fel groaned into the darkness of his bunkroom, frustrated. He rolled over onto his back and tucked his arms under his head. Jaina Solo. The young Jedi woman had been on his mind all night since the former Queen Mother's interruption. And that was exactly how he though of the beautiful old woman's emergence from the room across the corridor: an untimely interruption.  
  
He'd had a chance with Jaina tonight. A chance for what, he wasn't quite sure, but he knew that there had been possibilities. The rare sojourn into fantasy his mind had tripped into under pretense of helping him sleep had attempted to satisfy his curiosity.  
  
But where was fantasizing about Jaina Solo going to him in the end? More importantly, his very male body demanded, why the hell hadn't he finished?  


End file.
